


Only Human

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce expects too much of himself, Bruce has a potty mouth, Clark and Bruce argue about this, Clark and Bruce have different definitions of 'strength', Diana is wise, Diana knows best, Emotional Hurt, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hell they have different definitions of what it means to be human too, Injury, Misunderstandings, Self-Esteem Issues, Vaguely based on Christina Perri's song "Human", happy? ending, like very vaguely - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-30 11:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: After sustaining a pretty bad injury during a Justice League battle against Lex Luthor, Batman is feeling pretty beat up and insecure. He feelsweak. Bruce feels angry at the world, and is ready to snap at any of his teammates who try to help him.To be human is to be flawed and fallible, he thinks. Clark disagrees. He has a different definition of what it means to be human.





	1. Hurt (Physically)

**Author's Note:**

> "I can take so much  
> Until I’ve had enough  
> ‘Cause I’m only human"  
> — _Human_ , Christina Perri

_Tclk tclk tclk tckl_ … _Tckl_ … Batman paused his typing mid-sentence. His sigh of frustration seemed to almost echo throughout the empty cave. He looked around in the darkness, then back to the bright screen, and the word document which held far fewer words than he wished. He noted, dispassionately, that after his arm healed it would be time to practice ambidextrous writing again. But it was hard to concentrate because of the distant burning throb of his ribs, and through the hazy mess the pain meds created in his head. The little digital clock of his computer changed. _Another minute gone_ , Batman thought, grimacing. He found himself replaying last week’s fight in his head. 

_Luthor’s robot wasn’t as developed as some of his earlier battle bots because Batman had uncovered his plans before Luthor was ready to act. But this model was still perfectly capable of destroying an ordinary human. Batman was aware of this, especially as Luthor seemed to be targeting him today, perhaps out of annoyance at Bruce for spoiling his plans. A boot came stomping for his head and Batman grappled out of the way, flinging an explosive bat-a-rang over his shoulder as he did so. He felt a twinge of satisfaction as he heard the metal shriek. Batman landed, tucking the grapple line into his belt as he did._

_Superman swooped in, and lasered at the remaining arm cannon. But Luthor, though he occasionally acted rashly, was not stupid. He realized what Superman’s target was. Of course, Luthor was one man, and with Clark distracting him, other JL members were able to sneak closer. Flash, seeing this opportunity, started tearing the suit apart with his superspeed. Luthor realized his danger because he started swatting at Flash and managed to hit him. Barry went flying, landing somewhere Bruce couldn’t see._

_“Wonder Woman, go help Flash!” Bruce barked from his perch on a nearby storefront. Diana looked up in acknowledgement, then flew off in the general direction Barry had been flung. Bruce glided to the asphalt just as Luthor managed to hit Superman with one of his kryptonite beams. Clark groaned and hit the sidewalk with enough force to crack it. Batman darted forward and flung a bat-a-rang at Luthor’s robot._

_“Superman! We’ve got to move!” he shouted as a loud banging sound echoed in his ears. Green Lantern had Luthor trapped— for the moment— in a green bubble. Bruce helped Clark stand._

_Clark shook his head and after a minute, took to the air with a grimace on his face. “Let’s end this,” he said._

_Bruce yanked on the end of his cape and Superman turned to look down on his dark ally. “Take this,” Bruce said, handing him an E.M.P. device, “it should shut down the robot.”_

_Clark palmed the little device and nodded as he floated up farther, above Green Lantern’s bubble. Hal released his construct. Bruce threw an explosive bat-a-rang as Luthor immediately aimed his remaining cannon at Superman. But, with a dissatisfied growl, Batman saw a green beam hit Superman. A millisecond after the green flash, the remaining arm cannon exploded with a sound loud enough that Batman’s ears rang. The smoke cleared, showing that Diana was kneeling by Clark’s side, prepared to defend her friend from Luthor’s attacks. But instead of going for the man of steel, Luthor suddenly spun around and charged Batman._

_Bruce, distracted by the plight of his friend, was slow to react. He tried to leap out of the way but Luthor seemed to guess his plan because the robot shot out a giant foot and kicked Bruce in the stomach, which sent him flying backwards. He hit the ground with a smack and lay there a moment, breathless and dazed. This was enough for Luthor. He jumped, and with an earth-shaking thud, landed next to Batman. Close enough that Bruce, thought still winded and dazed, forced himself to roll sideways. Bruce raised an arm to shoot his grapple gun, still too dazed to do much else, but Luthor kicked him again and the force snapped his arm like a toothpick. The pain was so immense that Bruce let out a small whine. He was also less lucky this time because when he landed, he smacked the ground with enough force that he felt something crack. “Fuuuccck!” Batman wheezed, before promptly losing consciousness._

Batman awoke hours later to the sight of a pale but otherwise healthy-looking Superman, who was half-hovering by his bedside. Wonder Woman was also there. She stood by the heart monitor, seemingly absorbed by its steady beeping, and repeated pattern of sharp peaks and valleys. Bruce blinked open his eyes, ignoring the slightly nauseous feeling he always got from too many painkillers and too little food. He tried to scratch his wrist, which was itchy from the iv, but found, curiously, that his fingers were immobilized. Inside a giant white cast. He frowned, and drew another wheezing breath. Come to think of it, his ribs felt rather… constricted as well. Bruce glanced down to see that somebody had wrapped them. Well then. That’d be one less thing for Alfred to yell at him for. Clark had apparently decided to let him notice these things for himself before speaking. 

“J’ohn says both your radius and ulna, and a few fingers, were pretty near shattered. You didn’t need surgery, but just barely. You’ve also got a few fractured ribs, and one broken one… Luthor whooped you pretty good, Bruce,” Superman said, sighing. 

“No shit,” Bruce growled, trying to sit up. “How’s Barry?” 

“He will recover within the week,” Diana answered. Batman nodded, trying to ignore the pang of… jealousy that flashed through him. _Lucky bastard_ , he thought. 

“Good,” Bruce forced himself to grit out. He managed to sit straight and blinked the spots from his vision. Then he drew in another wheezing breath. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Clark asked, in that particularly patronizing tone only Superman could manage. Bruce wheezed again, and felt a sharp jab of annoyance as he failed to make a fist with his right hand, because of the cast. 

“Home. Alfred’ll be worried about me,” Bruce said in monotone. Clark sighed exaggeratedly, opening his mouth to argue. Diana put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a look. Superman shut his mouth into a grimace. 

“Bruce,” Diana said kindly, but with a tone that left no room for argument, “we already talked to Alfred. And J’ohn wanted to observe one more night, just to make sure you don’t need further treatment.” Bruce stared at her, and when she didn’t blink, he moved his gaze to Clark. Clark shuffled a little, but didn’t break. _There was no winning this_ , Bruce realized, displeased. 

“Fine,” he snarled, “but I’m not staying here.” With that, he moved to the edge of the bed and carefully drew out the iv. Less carefully, in fact some might say a bit too forcefully, he removed the heartrate monitoring clip from his finger and listened with a savage sort of pleasure as the heart monitor began producing a flat screeching tone, which made Clark flinch. Standing took more effort than he’d thought, and Batman wavered a moment as his ribs creaked. He saw Wonder Woman move forward slightly, ready to catch him, out of the corner of his eye. 

“Don’t,” he growled, fixing his suddenly steely gaze on her. He started walking forward, more slowly than normal, silently fuming the whole time. _He was, once again, the only fucking one who’d been hurt. That bastard Luthor was probably gloating in his jail cell right now about how he’d nearly crushed Batman like a gnat. Flash wasn’t even going to stay hurt for more than a week. A goddamn week, and here Bruce was, out of commission for a month at least, because he wasn’t able to get out of the way fast enough_. Clark caught up to him. Diana did not. 

“We decided that it’d be best if I went with you since, you know…” Clark babbled, gesturing to Bruce’s arm. Bruce suddenly caught onto his meaning and his temper spiked. He ground his teeth. Of course. He couldn’t even get out of the motherfucking Batsuit, with his fucking bastard arm broken as it was. Goddamnit. “Bruce?” Clark asked, probably snooping by listening to the grinding of Batman’s teeth and the spike in his heartbeat. 

“What?” Bruce snapped. 

Clark, evidently not expecting Batman to answer, stammered, eyes wide, “I… it’s, well— never mind.” Bruce sighed, and marched ahead of his friend. _Fuck this_ , he thought, _fuck Luthor. Fuck his goddamned robot. Double fuck this whole situation. Double mother fuck it with fries on the side. Heh. Fries on the side_. Bruce blinked, realizing he’d reached the door to his room. His stomach growled. Superman, annoyingly, was still there. He hovered as Bruce input the code. He hovered as Bruce stepped into the dark room. He hovered as Bruce’s stomach rumbled again. 

Finally, Superman was brave enough to ask, “Are you hungry, or…?” 

“Why yes, Superman, I am hungry. While you’re at it, why don’t you ask me how my ribs and arm are too? Or, to save time, why don’t you just x-ray them, like I know you already have,” Bruce said coldly. He angrily flicked on the light switch, sat on the bed, and angrily tugged at the zipper on one of his boots. He knew that he was behaving like a small child. But Batman could not think of a way to stop. He was angry at himself for being so petty, but also angry at Luthor. Angry at the whole situation. Angry at the fact that once again, he had been the only one hurt. Angry at Clark for pitying him. Angry at his own _weakness_. The goddamned boot was hard to get off with one hand, so Bruce almost missed what Clark said after a moment of silence. 

“I’ll be right back; do you have any preferences in food?” Clark asked, voice a little strained. _It’s a wonder he hasn’t yelled at me yet_ , Bruce thought. 

“No,” he answered petulantly, moving his focus to the other boot. Despite his lack of attention to the matter, Bruce could still imagine Clark’s reaction: clenched jaw, pursed lips, flared nostrils. A mantra repeating in his head: don’t yell at Bruce, don’t yell at Bruce. 

“Fine,” Clark said, a bit sharply, “then don’t complain if I bring you something you don’t like.” With that, he left. Bruce’s door banged shut with a little more fore than usual. Bruce felt satisfaction as his boot finally came off, and he pretended that it was from this small achievement alone, and not from pushing Clark’s buttons.


	2. Emotional (Hurt)

While Clark was gone, Bruce decided to try and remove as much of the suit as possible, which basically meant the belt, and the pants. “Shit,” he growled as he bent forward again to begin working on the belt. “Mother fucker.” A twang of fire went through Bruce’s chest as he tried to breathe. _He couldn't stay like this_. Bruce broke out into wheezy coughs and saw the galaxy bloom in front of his eyes as he stood. 

The problem with the belt was that it usually took _two_ hands to remove, and Bruce was a little wary of simply dropping it onto the floor both because it contained sensitive equipment and because it had explosives. He ended up trying to hold it in place with his casted arm and fiddling with the hidden clasps with his left. It was slow going, as the clasps were meant to stay firmly in place unless pressed on with enough pressure. Bruce fumbled for the third time with one of the clasps, which would appear to open, only to snap shut again. “God fucking damn it!” he hissed under his breath. 

A knock on the door made Bruce pause in his ineffective fumbling. “Come in,” he muttered, feeling resentful already. Unsurprisingly, it was Clark, with a bowl of what Bruce assumed was soup. Soup— he scowled again— the food of the ill, unstable, infirm. 

“It’s tomato,” Clark said, awkwardly standing in the doorway, bowl and spoon still in hand. Bruce grunted, turning back to his belt. 

Clark apparently took that as an invitation and stepped inside. But he didn’t put the soup down and seemed to be hovering. Bruce felt his metaphorical hackles raise again. He ignored Superman, as much as one could ignore an immortal alien standing in their room. Finally, after a few more minutes of ineffectual effort, Clark asked, “Do you want to eat this at your desk or what? I figured it might be easier…” he trailed off as Bruce looked up sharply. 

“Here,” he said curtly. Clark, to his credit, only paused for a second before handing the bowl to Bruce, who stopped fumbling with the belt and took the soup. He sat on the edge of the bed. For a second, Bruce hesitated, observing the spoon clinically. It was enough time for Clark to begin to ask, “Do you need—” 

“No,” Bruce said curtly. He held the troublesome utensil in place with his casted hand and drank the soup in a few large gulps. He set the bowl down with a clatter and went to wipe his mouth on his arm… except he couldn’t. Both because he still had the top of the Batsuit on and because of the cast on his arm. For a millisecond, Bruce forgot himself and closed his eyes in frustration. 

“Here,” Clark offered quietly, holding out a napkin. With a grimace, Bruce accepted. He stood and began fumbling with the belt again. But suddenly, with a sharp gust of alien-created wind, Clark was holding the offending accessory out. Bruce blinked once, and felt his internal rage meter tick up another notch. For another second, he could feel his heartrate increase before he focused on his breathing and got it under control. Meekly, Clark said, “There was no way you could’ve gotten it off by yourself.” Bruce clenched his teeth. Breathed. Took the belt without a word. He set it with the rest of the suit and strode to his closet. Opened it and selected a pair of sweatpants. Clark turned around. 

The clasps on the suit pants were easier to undo one-handed, but it still took significantly longer than usual, especially to get the hidden zipper. But when it came to getting them off, it proved impossible. Bruce tried wiggling, tugging, shimmying, all to no avail. He breathed in once, and out. _I will not ask Clark for help. I will not ask Clark for help. I will not_ — “Do you… need help?” Clark asked hesitantly, turning around half way. Bruce exhaled through his nose. 

“Yes,” he replied, tone clipped. Carefully, Clark approached, and thoughtfully looking at the wall behind them, yanked the suit pants down enough for Bruce to do the rest. Bruce grabbed the sweats and Clark’s gaze flickered down briefly. 

“Do you—” 

“No,” Bruce replied sharply. He grit his teeth, before forcing himself to relax. He swallowed, and tried to control the sharp, bitter feelings flowing through him. _As if Superman needed another reason to think Batman— Bruce— was weak. No, Bruce would not give it to him_. With more force than necessary, he threaded both feet through the pant legs and then shimmied them on and up. When he went to stand, Clark held up a hand and stepped forward so he was practically standing over Bruce. Bruce’s jaw clenched again and Clark glanced at him. Bruce tore his gaze away and stared resolutely at his boots, suit pants, and belt. 

After a tense silence, Clark said neutrally, “I’m going to need to rip this.” Bruce nodded, not looking at him. It wasn’t until Clark began jostling him slightly that Bruce looked down. At one particularly bad jostle, Bruce’s heart leapt at the bright flash of pain it caused. “Sorry,” Clark muttered, distracted. Bruce felt his internal ire tick up another notch. Clark gripped the suit between his hands, observing. Then he took one finger and poked a hole through the suit. Bruce blinked, and felt his heartrate increase a little. He cursed himself. 

But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop his instincts, which screamed at him to get _away_ from such a raw display of strength. Especially one so close to his damaged arm. Clark had torn through cutting-edge Kevlar, layers of armor, and electronics, with less effort than it took to cut through butter on a hot day. Bruce had spent years perfecting his armor, millions of dollars, thousands of hours testing it. And Clark had come along and ripped it like it was no more than paper. _Riiiipp_. Clark tore through the armor up to Bruce’s bicep. Bruce scowled, watching his life’s work be split into pieces. At the shoulder, Clark tore away the rest of the sleeve with surgical precision. _With assistance from his x-ray vision, no doubt_ , Bruce thought, storm clouds forming in his mind. He took one more breath, exhaling through his nose. 

Clark took a step back and peered at his work. It had taken him five minutes, and that was because he was being slow, being careful not to break Batman. Like Bruce was fucking _china_. “That should do,” he said, gaze flickering up to Bruce’s face. Bruce forced his muscles to relax, and presented a coldly neutral expression. “Lift your arms,” Clark said briskly, stepping forward again. Bruce complied, feeling a burning sensation in his gut, which was more emotional than physical. But still, it was _hell_ on his ribs and Clark must have heard the stress on his heart, in his slightly altered breathing. “I’ll make this fast,” he promised. Bruce said nothing. 

A while later Bruce felt the cooler air of his room as Clark finished unbuckling and unzipping the top of the suit. The suit, which strewn as it was, with the top’s missing arm, looked like nothing more than broken egg shells, a discarded exoskeleton. It looked useless. Bruce frowned for a second, then realized Clark was looking at him. “What?” he barked. Clark blinked. Bruce felt a savage jolt of pleasure at that. 

“Bruce, are you—” 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he said. Clark frowned. Silence reigned in the room. 

Finally, benevolently (Bruce’s mind snarled at the thought) Clark said, “Alright then. I’ll go. Let me know if you need anything else. Good night, Bruce.” 

“Good night,” Bruce replied tensely. Clark left. Bruce stood and shut off his light. He lay in the dark, stewing, for a long time before falling asleep. 

**. . .**

A week later, Bruce was balancing a tray of food and a mug of coffee in the JL’s cafeteria, concentrating on not dropping anything. _He was almost to the table, he could do this_. But the mug wobbled, and with a surge of annoyance, Bruce could only watch as it fell, shattered, and spilled coffee everywhere. The Flash abruptly appeared. “Do you want help with that?” he asked as Bruce slowly set his tray down and started bending over to mop up the mess. 

“No thank you,” he said calmly. 

“Are you sure, because I can—” 

“No. Thank. You,” Bruce repeated. Flash hesitated a moment. 

“Okay then, I guess,” he said, retreating. Bruce seethed. 

Once he’d picked up the chunks of broken mug and mopped up the coffee, Batman rose swiftly, grabbed his tray of (now cold) food and retreated from the cafeteria. He entered his room, and shut the door. From across the cafeteria, Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Martian Manhunter all shared a look. A few hours later, Superman knocked on the door of Batman’s Watchtower quarters. 

**. . .**

_If I say nothing_ , Bruce thought, glaring at his door, _would Clark listen?_ “Batman?” came the muffled voice of Superman, “I know you’re in there!” Bruce exhaled. _No, not only was the oaf fucking overpowered, he was stubborn enough for 100 men too._

“I’m busy,” he said quietly, turning his attention back to his laptop. 

“I know you can’t type like that!” Clark objected. Bruce growled. 

“Fuck off, Clark,” he growled, finally losing any semblance of cool he had left. 

“No,” Clark’s voice called, becoming, abruptly, louder. _Damnit, he must have used his override code_. The door swooshed open and suddenly, Bruce was glaring at Clark in-person. The other man shut the door before approaching. Clark came to sit at the foot of Bruce’s bed. Letting out one frustrated exhale, Bruce drew his feet towards his chest, _and goddamn Clark, for making him feel like this. God, if only he had some kryptonite on him, this situation would be different._

“Stop,” Clark said, looking frustrated for once. _Good_ , a part of Bruce thought pettily. “I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but Bruce, you need to know that we don’t think any less of you because—” 

Ah, here was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. Bruce inhaled sharply and interrupted, “What, Clark? Because I’m _human_?” Clark winced slightly. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said apologetically. Bruce laughed coldly. 

“Oh, I know that, _Superman_. You never mean it like that. Doesn’t make it any less true,” Bruce mocked. Clark looked up sharply, eyes hurt. “Don’t,” snarled Bruce, “I don’t want your fucking _pity_. I don’t want your help. I don’t _need_ anything from you right now!” He went to stand but was stopped when Clark closed an iron fist around his ankle. If Bruce had had laser vision, that offending hand would have been gone. He blinked once and said quietly, dangerously, “Let me go, Clark.” 

This time, Superman locked eyes with Bruce, looking set in his decision. “No, Bruce. Not until you _listen_.” Bruce ground his teeth, boiling. “You _are not_ weak. You _are not_ a liability. No one thinks less of you because of any abilities you may lack. We don’t expect you to keep up with us, or to try to. Everyone on the team has their own unique abilities, their own unique ways they’re less than perfect. Mine just happens to come in green rock form…” Clark said, voice rising. He cleared his throat awkwardly at the end of his strange speech. 

Bruce smiled sardonically. _Oh, Clark. He was trying, he really was trying_. “You’re wrong,” Bruce said. Clark opened his mouth to object but was stopped by an absolutely caustic glare from Bruce. “No! I don’t want your pity… It’s a nice thought, Clark, but your intentions don’t make it _true_. I _am_ weaker than the rest of the team, I _am_ a liability. But I’m not _mad_ at you— except when you act all idiotic, like right now— if anything, I’m jealous. If I had a tenth of your power, I could do _so much more_. But I don’t, and I can’t. I know that. But, I’m not… mad at you, or anyone else. _I_ was the one who wasn’t fast enough. _I_ was the one who got hurt. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault. I’m just… frustrated at myself,” Bruce answered, letting out a slow breath. He counted two of his own heartbeats before Clark replied. 

Bruce looked up. Clark was _staring_ , brow furrowed. He looked like a kicked puppy, or like a kid who’d just learned that Santa Claus wasn’t real. “Bruce! That’s— that’s just not _true_! God, you absolute idiot! Bruce, you’re one of the smartest, the strongest, the bravest men I know, and— and—” he sighed. He stood. He looked down at Bruce, as if puzzling through something. “Fine. Fine,” he said, “if you’re really not mad, then I guess I have no reason to be here.” He left, and Bruce wished he’d been physically punched instead. He stared at the empty doorframe for a long time after, a strange mix of anger, confusion, and hurt swirling through his brain.


	3. Discomfort (Emotional)

Bruce snapped back to the present. All the earlier events had left him here, typing, alone in the cave. With a sigh, Batman stopped typing. He was too distracted to get much benefit from continuing. It had now been almost a week since his last conversation with Clark and Bruce almost couldn’t stand the _tension_. Yes, though he wasn’t comfortable talking about it, Clark was his best friend… and he wasn’t happy with this distance between them. But, Bruce was stubborn, and hurt, and a bit confused about _why_ Clark seemed to be mad at him. And if Clark wanted to be immature and maintain radio silence, well. So be it. 

**. . .**

It took Diana’s intervention for Bruce to finally attempt to talk to Clark again. After a particularly tense league meeting where it was clear Superman and Batman weren’t speaking, Wonder Woman hung back under the pretense of having some questions for Batman. Bruce scowled at the place where she gripped his shoulder. She gave him a quelling look and Bruce wished for patience. 

“Diana,” he said inquiringly. It was never a good thing when she decided to ‘talk’ to Batman— it usually meant it was an intervention set up by the rest of the league. Bruce’s mood immediately took a nose dive. 

When it became clear he was not going to try and leave, Diana removed her hand. “What happened between you and Superman?” she asked, tone carefully neutral. 

Bruce sighed. _If only I knew_. “I don’t know,” he said shortly. Diana gave him a look. Bruce felt himself growing more defensive. “I don’t! So stop looking at me like that, Diana. _He’s_ the one who has a problem, so if you’re so concerned, go talk to Clark.” Bruce turned to walk away. 

“Bruce,” Diana scolded. Batman stopped just in front of the door with a sigh. 

“Fine. I’ll _try_ to talk to him. But don’t expect much,” he said stiffly, leaving. 

And now he had to figure out a way to approach the boy scout without starting _another_ fight. As if it wasn’t hard enough to talk to Clark sometimes. But it was a whole other thing when he was mad and acting pig-headed about it. And it wasn’t like Bruce was much good at talking to people, either. _Damn_. 

**. . .**

A few days later, Bruce was scanning the upcoming monitor duty schedule on his computer and nearly spit out his coffee. Right at the top, scheduled for a six-hour shift next week, were the names _Batman_ and _Superman_. Coughing a little, Bruce swallowed. He glared at the computer. When Diana had asked him to talk to Clark, Bruce had _assumed_ that when he’d said that he would, Diana would drop it. But apparently, she’d meant that as more of a warning: you _will_ be talking to Clark, because I’ve scheduled you for monitor duty together. Great. 

Bruce cursed interfering Amazons and began mulling over how, exactly, he was supposed to go about ‘talking to Clark.’ If he didn’t come up with anything in the next few days, well… it was going to be a very long, awkward shift of monitor duty. _Fucking fantastic_. Bruce glared at the screen again, as if that could fix any of his problems. “Damnit, Diana,” he growled. 

**. . .**

The fateful day arrived and Bruce teleported aboard the Watchtower with a scowl already fixed on his face. He was getting really sick of the damn cast and right now, his arm itched something fierce. While his ribs were doing better, it still hurt to breathe occasionally. Both injuries also made getting into the suit a nearly impossible task. He’d had to ask _Alfred_ for help, and that hadn’t happened since his first year of being Batman. So to say Bruce was in a bad mood was a bit of an understatement. 

Additionally, he was feeling apprehensive about spending the next six hours alone with Clark. He didn’t _want_ to fight with the man, but sometimes, Clark forgot how terrible Bruce was at reading people, and didn’t actually tell Bruce why he was mad at him. During Clark’s current fit of anger, Bruce had replayed the night that triggered it over and over again in his head. For the life of him, Bruce couldn’t figure out what he’d done to piss Superman off so badly. Sure, he’d been shitty to him, but Clark knew better than to get upset at that; he’d been Bruce’s friend for twelve years, and knew when to take his attitude seriously or not. And he’d been (more) injured at the time, Clark usually didn’t hold Bruce’s attitudes against him then. So it couldn’t have been that. Therefore, Bruce wasn’t sure why Clark was having such a hissy fit. But, Bruce knowing the cause or not didn’t change the fact that Clark was mad at him. It also didn’t change the fact that Clark’s anger was now causing problems in the league. Batman needed to find a solution. Bruce was nervous. 

**. . .**

Bruce added a detour to his route. Perhaps Clark would enjoy a fresh cup of coffee. It wouldn’t hurt that Bruce looked rather pathetic, trying to carry two cups of coffee with a broken arm. 

Sure enough, when Superman noticed what he was carrying, he immediately cooled his rather heated glare and, within a blink, was by Bruce’s side, hand extended. “Here, let me take one of those, Batman,” he said slightly gruffly. Bruce mutely handed him a cup of coffee— four sugars, two creams. Clark took a sip and looked a bit surprised to find it made exactly how he liked it. Bruce felt a little affronted. _As if I’d bring him sub-par coffee just because we’re fighting. Ridiculous_. But despite his feelings, Bruce kept a rein on his mouth. The offering of coffee was supposed to make things better, not worse, after all. 

“Thanks,” Clark said softly, breaking up the silence. 

“Hmm,” Bruce grunted, walking toward the computer. “Anything happen yet?” 

Clark sighed, coming to float to his left. Bruce ignored his desire to tell him off for _hovering_ there. “No. I just got here,” Clark said shortly. The only sound was the beeping and whirring of the computers. Bruce barely kept from sighing. So it was going to be a long six hours then. Well, Batman could do silence, if needed. But Bruce _did_ feel a little offended that his peace offering of coffee hadn’t worked.


	4. A Solution (To Discomfort)

Bruce and Clark finished up monitor duty and Bruce was very happy to leave the chilly atmosphere behind. While it was true that the Bat was practically immune to emotional passive-aggressiveness, and Bruce himself had a thick skin, it was different when one was stuck, alone, in the room with it for six hours. While the offer of coffee _had_ warmed the atmosphere a bit, and Bruce had kept _some_ hope for the first hour after, it hadn’t helped enough. Clark, for all Bruce’s efforts, still seemed to be mad. 

The only talk they exchanged was the stiff, surface-level kind: how was Gotham? Was Clark writing anything interesting? Did they expect the next league meeting to take long? It was far from what Bruce had hoped would happen. _But then, how much could a cup of coffee really do?_ Bruce scolded himself. _If you want anything to get better, you actually have to talk to him_. But, he acknowledged, that wasn’t likely to happen. Even if Bruce did try to talk to Clark, it probably wouldn’t help anything. At least now he could tell Diana he’d tried, and hope she’d let it go. 

**. . .**

At the next meeting, Diana shot him a look across the table. Bruce shrugged. Diana raised an eyebrow. Bruce frowned, shook his head, and looked determinedly away. It was out of his hands. Bruce suppressed another grimace at the pain of those words. He reminded himself that he’d tried, and Clark had seemed uninterested in speaking to him. Nothing he could do about that. Nothing. Without realizing it, Bruce started frowning again as he forcefully studied the screen behind J’ohn. Across the table, Clark was observing, eyebrows slightly creased. He looked up to see Diana giving him a pointed look and an arched eyebrow. Clark looked away, frowning. A brief expression of annoyance crossed Wonder Woman’s face, only to be replaced by attentiveness as J’ohn began the briefing. 

**. . .**

A week later, Bruce was back in the cave. This time, however, his arm was only in a sling and his ribs weren’t even wrapped. He yawned once and then reached for his mug. But his arm stilled half way to his lips and he froze stiffly, like a deer hearing a hunter. After a moment he finished his movement, as if unshaken. Without turning, Bruce said, “Oh. You’re here. I wasn’t expecting you anytime soon.” 

There was the soft sound of boots setting down. “Well I’m here. Hi.” Bruce grunted, turning back to the computer. If Clark was here to make some sort of apology, he’d have to work at it. After all, Bruce had already tried, and been rejected. Clark could afford to work for it. Batman did not think about how nice it was, in a mean way, to be the one doing the rejecting. 

Clark walked forward awkwardly. He stopped halfway to the computer and took a moment to rein in his growing frustration. Diana had talked to him, and upon further reflection… he could see how things had gotten out of hand. “He is your friend, Clark! He is hurt, and confused, about why you are so angry at him. Do not be a fool— go and talk to Batman,” Diana had said. And now that he was thinking more clearly, Clark wanted to kick himself: _how had he not recognized Bruce’s actions, that cup of coffee he’d gotten Clark, for what they were? Bruce had tried to bring him a peace offering and Clark had rejected it._

Clark took a few more steps, and reminded himself that this was _Batman_ and nothing ever came easy with him. But Bruce was a friend, even if he was sometimes an annoying one, so he deserved Clark’s effort. During Clark’s… internal monologuing, Bruce had kept his attention on the computer. But his body language said he was finely attuned to Clark’s movements— shoulders stiff, back straight, pulse slightly elevated. There was silence in the cave, save for the chittering of the bats, the sound of the waterfall, Bruce’s typing, and his breathing. 

Clark took a breath. “Bruce,” he tried again, tone soft and conciliatory. _That_ got a reaction out of him. Bruce stiffened, typing jolting to a stop for a second. But he caught himself and resolutely went back to ignoring Superman. Clark chuckled internally. _Leave it to Bruce to take ignoring someone to extremes_. He sighed. Took a few more steps. Now he was within an arm’s length of the chair. 

“What do you want, Clark?” Bruce asked coldly. Clark bristled, ready to get angry again. But he forced himself to calm down and remember what Diana had said. Bruce was hurt, and he pushed people away when he was. Clark knew his tricks. 

He sighed, looking at his feet. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know I’ve been… rude, and pushing you away. So please, just talk to me, at least,” Clark said. Bruce finally turned around, glaring at Clark. But he didn’t remove the cowl. Or stand up. 

“I _wasn’t_ upset. I was just concerned that our… situation was affecting the league,” Bruce said coolly. He went to turn his chair around but, without thinking, Clark grabbed the corner of it and stopped the motion. Bruce’s eyes snapped up and he stared at Clark with lightening scrutiny. 

Clark let go hastily and took a step back for good measure. But Bruce didn’t try to turn around again. _Clearly this was going nowhere_ , Clark thought moodily. But before he gave up prematurely, Clark had one more thing to try. “Talk to me, Bruce— or don’t. Just don’t _lie_. I know I was being a dick, and I’m sorry. I’ll go, let you get back to work…” he turned around to leave, feeling like he’d been exposed to kryptonite. From behind him, Clark heard the sound of the cowl being removed. Hope sparked inside him. 

But he didn’t turn around until he heard a huff of breath and a soft, “Goddamnit, Clark.” 

Clark turned around and stopped. Blinked. Because there was Bruce, looking up at him with his blue eyes anxiously fixed on _Clark’s_ expression. He absently fiddled with the cowl. After a moment of them looking at each other, Bruce stood, scowling. “If you’re going to apologize, then get on with it. I have work to do,” he said gruffly. Clark resolutely did not laugh. Though he may have smiled. 

“I… First, I’m sorry I was such a dick, Bruce. I realize now what you were trying to do with the coffee, and I was being an idiot. So I’m sorry for all my actions, and I—” 

Bruce cleared his throat and interrupted dryly, “I thought we were supposed to be talking about me and my feelings, not you, Clark.” Clark looked up sharply, but relaxed when he saw Bruce’s expression. _Oh, that was a joke_. He sighed. 

“Right. Sorry. I guess I should tell you what got me all in a twist. It’s … it’s just, talking about being _human_ … seeing you injured. It reminds me that I’m not.” _Not human_ , Bruce’s mind supplied. He frowned, and forced himself back to Clark’s words. “When you get injured, it frustrates me. And that mission, fighting Luthor, you got injured protecting me— the invulnerable one. I was just frustrated, both with myself, and with your attitude. I don’t _like it_ when you beat yourself up, Bruce, because I’m your friend.” 

“Hmm,” Bruce said quietly. 

Deliberately not looking at him, Clark said, reservedly, “Seeing you injured, it reminds me that someday, I’ll be alone.” _That you’ll die_. There was a long beat of silence, where Bruce’s stomach churned unpleasantly. _Well, yes. Clark was technically right. But Bruce didn’t know what to say. He knew he would die, someday (probably sooner than Clark was thinking) but he didn’t like to think about it. What exactly did Clark expect him to say?_ Bruce swallowed. And he wasn’t sure what to think about Clark’s comments about his attitude. But he had to say something. 

“Yes,” he started, still hunting for the right words, “I know that. Knew that. I’m only human. That’s… I lied, the other day. I was mad at you too. Not that you really did anything, not because I was jealous, but... for treating me like I’m human. I don’t— Clark, a big part of being the Bat is appearing to be _more than human_. When that’s gone, when it’s gone, I— I can’t,” Bruce sighed. _Talk about pep talk_ , he thought bitterly, _what a pair we are_. Clark finally looked up. 

Bruce continued: “I get frustrated, Clark. I have… high expectations of myself— some would say too high—” Clark chuckled— “but I’m frustrated with myself, not you. But, I think I understand, where you’re coming from now. And I’m sorry too.” 

Clark gave him a small smile. “You’ll try to be nicer to yourself?” he asked. 

Bruce grimaced but replied, “Yes. And you’ll _tell me_ what’s bothering you, instead of freezing me out?” 

It was Clark’s turn to grimace. “Yes, I’ll try to be less of an ass in the future,” he promised. They locked eyes. Bruce chuckled. After a beat, Clark did too. “So we’re both just scared, and insecure?” he asked breathily. 

Bruce smiled again, heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “Yep,” he said simply. 

There was another beat of silence. Bruce hesitated as Clark looked at him again, clearly expecting more. Bruce cleared his throat and said, “Welcome to being human.” Clark let out something between a sigh and a chuckle. Bruce turned back to the computer, relieved. _They’d be alright_.


End file.
